


No, We Only Have Plane

by hedda62



Category: Cabin Pressure, Lost
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two pilots walk into a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, We Only Have Plane

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you get a crossover stuck in your head, you know? I am probably alone in my madness, but if anyone else has been waiting for this to happen, do drop a comment. Warnings: drunkenness and absurdity.

Martin was already pretty sozzled on mulled wine before he reached the door of the Holoholo Bar at twenty-three hundred hours on his second Christmas of the year. He pushed it. It didn't open.

_Pull,_ a small notice mocked at him. Right.

There was a pilot sitting at the bar. Well, either he was a pilot or he was taking part in a reenactment of the sinking of the _Titanic,_ in which case he was seriously lost. But he looked even more weighed down by trouble and gold braid than Martin, who was sitting beside him before he realized how stupid an idea it might be.

The pilot glanced sideways and raised his glass. "I see that you are a logger," he said, in a growly American voice that matched his graying, rugged exterior. "And not just a common bum."

"No, actually I'm a… oh. It's a song. Douglas sang it all the way to Saskatoon once. Interspersed with 'I'm a Lumberjack and I'm Okay.'" He paused. "Hello," he added.

"Hey," said the pilot. He held out a grizzly paw. "Frank," he said.

"Martin," responded Martin, shaking hands. He decided then that since he was in a bar he should order a drink, and tried to attract the bartender's attention. After several iterations of _er, um, pardon me but,_ Frank gave a loud whistle and produced instant service.

"What can I do you for, mate?" the bartender said.

"Vodka tonic, please."

"Coming right up. Another?" he added to Frank, who gulped the rest of his drink and set the glass down hard in response. "This'll be the one he needs to start telling you about that island," the bartender told Martin in his slightly disorienting Mancunian accent, and turned away.

There was a short pause, then Martin said, "You wouldn't think there'd be so many Brits in Hawaii all at once."

"Probably fate haunting me," Frank growled. "So what brings you to Molokai?"

"A plane," said Martin. "I mean, I flew. I mean, I flew the plane. I'm the captain."

"Yeah, I guessed," Frank said, waving an unsteady hand at Martin's uniform. "Charter?"

"MJN Air. We fly the world. Well, no." He'd been trying out slogans lately; this one sounded a little off. "We fly all over the world, though. Off to Novosibirsk in" -- he checked his watch -- "six hours."

"Lovely this time of year, I bet." The vodka tonic arrived, awkwardly, at that moment. Douglas would have made a devastating remark about Martin's capacity or ability or both; Frank said nothing but "Cheers," which made Martin warm toward him even more.

"Happy Christmas," he said.

"Is that what it is?"

"It's my second one. We crossed the International Date Line, you see. Time's a funny thing."

Frank snorted. "You're telling me."

"So what brings _you_ to Molokai?"

"I live here. When I'm not flying somewhere."

"Is it charters for you too, then?"

"You could say that. Only got one client. I hop when he says hop, and the rest of the time I spend on the beach. Or here." He patted the bar stool.

"Must pay well."

"Well enough."

"I don't suppose he needs--"

"Nope."

"Oh. Sorry."

Frank gave Martin's shoulder a little shake. "Nah, apologies mine. Don't mean to imply you're not good enough. I'm sure you're great."

Martin glowed. "Thanks."

"If disgustingly young. But my boss only needs one pilot."

"Client or boss? First you said one," Martin explained, "then the other."

"Huh. My boss doesn't call himself my boss. And my boss's assistant I prefer to think of as a client. Didn't think I'd see either one of them again, when we left…"

"The island?" Martin said, remembering the barman's words.

"The island," Frank agreed, but he didn't seem inclined to say more. He seemed inclined to drink, so Martin went along with that until he felt one of them should be talking.

"This is an island," he said. "Lots of places are islands, in fact. Britain is. Ireland. Iceland. I, I, I… er. There's an island game we play on long flights sometimes. Name a letter."

Frank gave him a skeptical look. "F," he said.

"Falklands," Martin answered triumphantly. "Faroes. Florida Keys. You do M."

"Well, duh. Molokai. Maui." Frank paused. "Membata."

"Never heard of that one. Is that your special island?"

"No." Frank drank some more, then added, "Never thought I'd get mixed up with them again. Thought that was it, when I flew away. But it's my _destiny,_ I guess," he noted in sour tones. "Plus being linked to _two_ famous crashes limits job opportunities."

"Really? I mean, you crashed twice?"

"No. The first one was the one I didn't fly. The second wasn't a crash. But it was a damned dirty landing on a runway made of crushed stone not _quite_ long enough for a jet coming in at high speed."

"Wow," said Martin, trying not to sound too impressed. "What happened?"

"We veered into the jungle and my co-pilot got speared by a branch. But everyone else survived. The landing, at least."

"Oh."

"That wasn't the really exciting part. Taking off again, now that was exciting."

"You… can't actually have passed all the pre-flight checks."

Frank laughed. "Duct tape. And sheer panic. And considerably less weight than we landed with."

"Well, I hope I never have to go through that." Deep in his heart, he really, really hoped he would. "I guess I need to stay away from islands, huh?"

"Just that one. And it's hard to find even if you're trying. You'll do fine."

"Yes, I think I will," Martin said, and for once believed himself. Probably the vodka talking. He tried some more. "Give me another letter," he said.

"J," said Frank.

"Hm. Does Japan count?" Frank waved an assenting hand. "And Java. And… ha, Juan Fernandez."

"Pretty good. I wonder if all flight crews play games to pass the time? Pete and I did."

"Pete?"

"Otherwise known as Shishka-Bob," Frank said, pantomiming impalement. "He was a funny guy. Ha-ha funny, I mean. We used to trade off jokes. Pilot jokes, mostly."

"Like what?" Martin asked, thinking he'd probably heard too many already.

"How many pilots does it take to change a lightbulb? One; he holds onto it and the world revolves around him. Or alternately, none; the autopilot does it."

"Our flight attendant changed a lightbulb once. It only took him, but he went through about five lightbulbs."

Frank snorted. "I should ask my client to do it sometime. He'd just glare reasonably at the bulb and it would change itself."

"Sounds like my boss," Martin said, sighing. "And my co-pilot would get me to do it somehow. Win a bet or win a game or just _win._ "

"Well, listen," Frank said, leaning closer and breathing whisky into Martin's face. "You're good at islands and you're good at jokes, but all that you really have to be good at is landing hard and being able to take off again. Have a hard head and grab something that floats and be the one everyone needs to get themselves off the island. Survive longer than the other guy. That's how you win in the end. If this is winning," he added, gesturing at his environs.

"It looks like a good billet to me."

"Uh-huh. Could be a lot worse."

"So, land on your feet in Molokai," Martin said; how bad could it be? "And always have plenty of duct tape handy."

"Yeah." Frank clinked his glass against Martin's. "Just don't put it over the lightbulbs. You know what there aren't a lot of?"

"What?"

"Two pilots walk into a bar jokes. Or even one pilot. No one tells jokes about pilots drinking. I guess they think it'll jinx something. Here's to Novosibirsk," he said, upending his glass into his mouth. He swallowed, and then whistled.

"Oh Captain my captain," said the barman, turning around. "You want another? This one," he added to Martin, "brings on the black smoke and the bald guy."

"Yeah," said Frank, "but first" -- he winked at Martin -- "you got any helicopter-flavored potato chips?"


End file.
